


What Was All of It For?

by momothesweet



Series: We Don't Talk Anymore [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 09:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10434654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momothesweet/pseuds/momothesweet
Summary: Akaashi cleans out his closet after a day of work.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In this installment, I'm taking apart bokuaka
> 
> arguably my favorite ship next to iwaoi if I'm being honest with myself

“It’s perfect. I love it. You’re amazing at what you do!”

More compliments go around the couch, blushing girls and a crying mother completing the experience for the bride in her dress that’s fitted down to an eighth of an inch. Akaashi’s good at his job. He’s known that for a while, even though he may not explicitly express that to his clients.

Perhaps that’s one reason why he’s single now.

No time for intrusive thoughts, though. He steps up to the bride, looking her up and down and offering her a smile in response to how elated she is with her dress. A few turns and a few suggestions to keep the dress as clean as possible throughout the ceremony, and the entourage all head on out to complete their purchase. The bride gives Akaashi one last tearful hug, telling him how he’s changed her life, and runs off to her mother and bridesmaids.

The fitting room is empty now. Akaashi takes a seat on the couch, warmed up from positivity and sheer delight. His job has always been rewarding. From women in need of a dress to men in need of a suit, he does his absolute best to create something special for them all. He toys with the tape measure around his shoulders, one end draping far enough to graze the lightweight cotton of his suit pants. This is his last client for today. He’s got the weekend off to relax, sketch, and clean.

He doesn’t really want to do that last part.

Slowly, he rises from the couch and returns to his office, putting away his supplies and grabbing his bag to head on home. He says good night to his coworkers and wishes them all a good weekend. 

He hopes he has a good weekend, too.

Friday nights in Tokyo thrive like the city itself has a heartbeat. The people are the blood, flowing easily through crosswalks and sidewalks and in and out of various shops. The train he takes is crowded, as usual, but he manages with deep breaths and a podcast about the challenges of fashion in the modern world. No human shield to help him out. It’s been awhile since he’s had one.

Sometimes he misses it.

It’s only a fleeting feeling these days, and there are too many other things to think about, anyway. The fabrics that need to be ordered, the clients that are coming in for their initial consultation. The latter is a much more hefty task than Akaashi likes; some of his higher profile clients demand something so convoluted, even he can’t bear to sew something together. But he likes the job very much. New ideas, new approaches, new ways to express himself through clothing.

Others may not appreciate it. Or, really, others may not understand it.

Usually, it’s both. 

In the case of Akaashi’s ex, it’s the latter.

Coming home to an empty, dark apartment becomes routine again. All the city lights of Tokyo are never enough to illuminate his open space with carefully picked out furniture. He switches on the lights and slips of his shoes, then heads straight for his bedroom to enter his walk-in closet.

It’s still pretty full, in his opinion. Clothes of every texture and color that suit his frame and style line one wall, while several drawers in the middle occupy all of his accessories and accouterments for said clothes. Though warmer, brighter colors bring out his eyes (the supposed “best” part of his body), they’re not his style. Part of style is finding comfort, as well. That’s his motto, at least.

Hesitation hits him hard when he glances at the wall opposite his own. It’s like two different closets in one room; hardly anything is hanging from the racks, and the drawers across from his own only house a few ties and scarves and some other pieces in between. Most of the clothes were simply given to the other immediately after the breakup. Most of them were also hand-picked and made exclusively...by Akaashi himself.

Nobody, Akaashi remembers, would ever touch his work for his favorite client, now former client. And boyfriend. All the stitching, the sewing, the hemming. All of his own time and effort were put into every piece of clothing requested and gifted. The vast majority has been donated or auctioned off to charity, since they weren’t taken when he moved out. Maybe Akaashi shouldn’t have let him take the clothes. So much care was put into them, the clothes are practically priceless.

However, the pieces would end up taking all the space in the closet, yet again. The extra space could be used for more shoes, more avant-garde wardrobe if he’s ever feeling more devilish, riskier pieces. There are lots of possibilities.

He steps over to that side of the closet with a deep breath, taking down a hanging white button-up made with sea island cotton. The fabric is incomparable to any other type of cotton, so soft and silky and perfect for anyone who wants comfort and luxury wrapped in one. Paired with the right suit (black is always the best choice for everything) and shoes, the outfit will provide the perfect, subtle accent to a high-end night on the town. Dinner, drinks, dancing under the stars.

Akaashi sighs wistfully.

That shirt and the rest of the leftover clothes and accessories go in a box that had been sitting at the foot of his bed for nearly a month. There are are a few other items in the box, including a watch, some high-resistance workout leggings, and a pair of black Nikes that are definitely too big for him. One last look and he tapes the box shut, then kicks it towards the door so he knows to take it to his storage unit on the outskirts of Tokyo.

A shower and a more simple sleeping outfit—a white t-shirt and some boxers from the local shop around the corner of his complex—gets him more and more ready to get to bed. Akaashi plugs his phone in on his nightstand and settles himself between his sheets, and closes his eyes for a decent five minutes.

It’s cooler without him.

He turns over to look at his phone. 

_ Don’t do it _ .

He tells himself that over and over again.

_ He isn’t thinking about you _ .

He’s sure he isn’t.

_ He doesn’t care about you anymore _ .

His thoughts break him and he reaches for his phone to open up a marked Instagram page. He knows he shouldn’t look, but he has to. He has to see how he’s doing.

How Bokuto is doing.

To his surprise and very, very secret delight, he posted a few new pictures the last time he checked, which was a few days ago. A shirtless picture of him at the gym doesn’t matter to Akaashi. Not as much as the most recent picture matters.

It’s a repost from a tabloid magazine’s Instagram of him crossing a street in style after a night at some fancy club Akaashi doesn’t recognize. Bokuto  _ does _ go out...a lot. The caption is an array of emojis, ending with a hashtag reading “all day every day.” Akaashi huffs then looks more closely at the photo.

Gray suit. Likely from a more mainstream designer with a more American clientele, judging by the shade (unless Bokuto used several filters, which could be likely). White collared shirt inside, two buttons opened at the top. Likely not as comfortable as his sea island cotton shirt, unless he found himself another that was made with love. Unnecessary pocket square, especially if he was going for something more relaxed. His favorite dress shoes made by a shoemaker when they took a trip to Sendai together.

Akaashi squeezes his phone and curses himself for looking at this picture. He isn’t able to feel the fabric, make sure it fits just right on his broad shoulders and defined chest. He can’t ask if he’s comfortable or if he wants to take off something that “feels” ugly, rather than “looks” ugly. 

At least there isn’t someone else holding his hand in the picture.

It’s the little things that count.

After staring at the picture for another ten minutes, analyzing every detail he can’t even be sure of, he turns off his phone and turns in bed, sliding his hand over to the sheets where someone should be.

Where someone used to be.

Akaashi makes mistakes when he puts together clothes for his clients. It’s common practice and nothing new among any profession. When a stitch is incorrect, he starts over. If he pins the wrong side of a dress, he pulls it out and finds where the pin should be. Whenever a sketch doesn’t look right, he doesn’t tear it up and toss it away. He flips to a new page and sketches his idea over.

Tonight, he wonders again if he can fix whatever mistakes he made with Bokuto.

But those mistakes aren’t as easy as fixing a stitch. 

Not by one bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Next installment will be a kuroken, and then I'll round it out with another iwaoi (and you'll know why :D)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, feedback and nice clothes are greatly appreciated! <3
> 
> [Tumblr ](http://shoujomomo.tumblr.com) | [ Twitter](http://twitter.com/iwaizumiii)


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